The Agony of Always
by MooseandSquirrel
Summary: What happened when Castle left Beckett's apartment? Featuring photos, Beethoven, and a bracelet made for Fathers' Day.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Four reviews, fifteen favorites/author alerts, and unsolicited editing assistance from a dear friend who turned me onto _Castle_ about a year and a half ago, and here I am again. Thank you to all who read my drivel and to all who take the time to weigh in on the musings of my twisted brain. The encouragement helps me attempt this. Love to see what you all think.

I have always been interested in what we don't see, and what the thoughts of our intrepid heroes are when we see a facial expression. This is the result.

One of these days, I will write something with actual dialogue. It has been a while. Give me time to stretch the writing muscles.

Spoilers: Up to and including 4x23, "Always."

Disclaimer: Don't own anything. Not making any money. Leave me alone.

…

"Hey, you're not in this alone. I'm here."

"Well, I guess there's just nothing I can say, is there? OK, um…yeah, you're right, Kate. It's your life. You can throw it away if you want, but I'm not going to stick around and watch you. So, this is, uh… over. I'm done."

Kate Beckett sat on the floor of her apartment, legs crumpled beneath her. A small cardboard box lay open in front of her. It had been years since she had looked inside. She knew she had tried to organize the contents, tried to make sense and impose an order on the chaos within, but she had never been able to bring structure to it. She gave up about four years ago.

Four years ago.

She dipped her hand inside, brought up a plastic jewel case without a cover. Inside, she saw the dull sheen of the blank CD, the faded colors of the Sharpie marker shining up at her. She stood shakily, crossed the room to her stereo, and placed the disc inside. Slowly, the swells of the music reached her ears. She didn't remember where she found this particular version, but she knew it had always calmed her rattled nerves, forced her to focus, and brought order to her turbulent mind.

As the triplets of the _Adagio Sostenuto_ filled the room, she closed her eyes. She knew the history of the piece as well as the effect it had on her. Dedicated in 1802 to his then pupil, Giulietta Guicciardi, the piece quickly became known as the "Moonlight Sonata" when, five years after Beethoven's death, a German critic likened it to moonlight shining upon Lake Lucerne.

Kate didn't know how to quantify it, how to neatly describe it, how to explain the effect it had on her. In her life, she always looked deeper. Always looked behind the scenes. Always looked beneath the surface. There was always an explanation, a motive, a single piece that, when discovered, unlocked the entire mystery.

And now? She had an answer to two of the biggest mysteries of her recent years on Earth. One, why she wasn't finished off after she took a bullet to the heart in the cemetery, and two, why Castle had been acting strangely for the past month.

Castle. He was at the heart of both of those mysteries. How he could be simultaneously the reason for her very existence, and yet, keep her from moving forward with her life made no sense to her. Logic escaped his actions.

Kate sat back down on the floor, reached into the box, and pulled out a stack of photos. As she slowly moved through them, the tears began to prick at the corners of her eyes. A family photo of her, her dad and mom sitting at a picnic table in Central Park. Kate's hair was braided in pigtails, and her toothy smile belied the steely glint in her eyes. She was no more than six years old. Her mother stood over her, hand on her shoulder as if to say, _I am here if you need me, sweetheart. _Her dad was kneeling in front of her, finishing up the last bow of her laces on her fluorescent roller skates. His smile seemed to say, _Now, Johanna, she'll be fine. _

Then, a picture of her with her fingertips to her mouth, which was slightly opened in shock and in happiness. The letterhead at the top of the piece of paper she was holding was unclear, but Kate knew the Stanford colors all too well. Her dad had hidden around the corner when she got the letter and waited there for her to open it. She recalled that she had phoned her mother immediately after opening it, and her mother had come directly home to celebrate. They had gone to a new restaurant that night, and she remembered the smells, the sights, and the sounds of the small, cozy eatery. She couldn't recall anything about it when they waited for three hours for her mother on The Night Everything Changed.

A picture of her striding confidently across the stage, her dress blues neatly creased and perfectly tailored. She was walking up to the Chief, whose hand was outstretched towards her, her plaque in his other hand. The flags were draped across the backdrop of the auditorium, proclaiming their congratulations to the graduating class of that year. She seemed larger than life in that picture, her hair wound in a tight bun under her cap, her eyes set on the man holding the key to the beginning of her quest for The Truth.

The truth. What did that even mean, anyway? She had her colleagues, sure. But, she no longer had Castle to share the knowing glances with, the small, imperceptible nod of his head when she needed to take a step back, take a deep breath, and reassess her approach to the case. Ultimately, Castle would not be at her side when she finally found The Answer, the reason for it all.

The music swelled around her as she moved through the photos, one by one. She couldn't help but hear him as each photo brought back a forgotten memory.

_Oh, wow…You were into Nirvana? I can just see you writing 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' on your Trapper Keeper for hours in Algebra class._

_Beckett, you didn't tell me you dyed your hair that particular shade of green. Was this Grunge Boy's doing? Tell me you had matching flannel t-shirts that smelled like cloves._

_I had no idea you attended a single football game, let alone painted your face the proud colors of the Cardinal. Did you join the band in their singular mocking of your opponents?_

_Awwww, I don't get to see you chasing down the runner at third base?_

As the silent tears began to fall, she dropped each photo on the floor one at a time. Another memory, another chance at truly sharing her life with someone slipped through her fingers.

When he had spoken earlier, she almost broke. She almost gave in.

"Every morning, I bring you a cup of coffee just so I can see a smile on your face. Because I think you are the most remarkable, maddening, challenging, frustrating person I have ever met."

She couldn't admit it to herself before now. She couldn't conceive of the idea. This was Richard Castle, of all people. King of Page Six. The White Whale. The Bad Boy of Fiction. She couldn't fathom doing her job before he came along, but, to think that he…after all this time? Why would he choose to tell her now?

She smiled humorlessly. This was his excuse, his deflection, his way of justifying what he had done. He had rocked her to her core, and she didn't know what she could believe in anymore. She thought she was working on herself so she could bring The Wall down and finally have a shot at something real. Will, Demming, Josh…they filled space. Castle brought fun to her life. He had charmed his way in and had brought a fresh look at the world, an unbridled joy for the simple pleasures.

She closed her eyes tightly, but the look on his face and the raw emotion of his words haunted her. She had ashes in her mouth. His words, the very things that had saved her all those years ago, stung her bitterly. He left. He had given up. He had promised her that he would stand with her, but when she wanted him by her side, he had chosen to walk away. His words had left her pummeled and bruised with their simplicity, with their honesty.

She looked down into the box, saw the yellowing envelope inside, the fading scrawl of a fountain pen on the cover, and she sensed that even though she knew it by heart, she was going to read it again.

_My Dearest Katie, _

_I know you will never admit it, but I know you are both excited and nervous to begin the next phase of your life. _

_If you are thinking that this is too far, too much of a leap, and that Dad and I will miss you too much…stop. If you are thinking that you are leaving behind all that you know and everything you have become…stop. Your experiences, the qualities that make you the wonderful young woman you are will always be with you. We have tried our best to help you, to guide you, to gently nudge you in the right direction to get you to this very moment. Now you get to decide who and what to bring into your life. _

_Drink deeply of the world, Katie. Try everything, question everything, and above all else, find joy in the people you meet. Some people will frustrate you, others will disappoint you. Some will make you laugh until your sides hurt, one will make you smile like no one else has before or ever will._

_And, if you ever find yourself questioning your decisions or feeling the pangs of regret, think about the choices you made that brought you to the particular moment, and allow yourself to look inward and be completely honest with yourself. As long as you are moving forward, your heart open to the world and the people in it, you will always find your way home. Always. _

_I am so proud of you, Katie. I love you. _

_- Mom_

Kate glanced up, her fingers slowly tracing the strokes of the letters on the paper. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks now, and her heart raced in her chest.

She had failed.

Failed her mother. In more ways than one.

She couldn't fulfill her mother's wishes. Not until she knew The Answer. And it was so close. She knew what her shooter looked like, what his name was. She was closing in on him, and Castle had unwittingly strengthened her resolve. She was going to find her shooter. And she was going to make him tell her who He was.

She stood, the last of the photos falling from her lap and across the floor. Time to put away the memories. Time to close the book on this chapter of her life, with or without Castle at her side.

She owed her mother that much.

…

A/N: Shall we see what the Angst Faeries have in store for a certain Richard Castle?


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Still no dialogue. Forgive me.

Spoilers: Up to and including 4x23, "Always."

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am borrowing the characters for a test drive. Don't worry, they will come back in the same condition. I am poor, so don't try to sue me. Didn't make a nickel.

…

Richard Castle's loft was spacious, in a word. By New York standards, it was positively gargantuan. The rooms were wide and filled with natural light. His study was replete with tools of the trade; namely, his library of books, his laptop, several old typewriters that had given birth to his first set of novels, and a desk that allowed him to spread out his ideas, one by one for quick access and deft rearrangement into the story that unfolded inside of his head.

Tonight, it felt like a prison.

Echoes of memories bounced off of the walls; the sounds of the past eighteen years seemed faintly audible. His desk was cleared off, everything in its place, and, sitting alone in the center of the desk, was a small wooden box. The simple clasp was stiff from disuse.

With slightly shaking hands, he opened the box and took in the contents. He breathed in slowly, feeling the aroma of the 25-year scotch filling his nostrils. He held the glass to his forehead, drinking in the coolness against his feverish skin.

Ever since he had left her apartment, he had felt as if his bones were on fire. Every step he had taken towards her front door was in utter agony. His eyes had been clenched shut; for a moment, he expected to have taken a round in the back.

He would have deserved nothing less.

Once he had reached the door, he paused, fingers lightly resting on the handle. His breath had hitched in his chest and he had waited for several seconds, praying he would hear her voice, just one last time.

He waited in vain.

He had wanted to turn around, to see her standing there, hoping beyond hope that he would see _something_ in her eyes, something he could hold onto. Something he could remember her by.

Instead, all he got in return was the sound of thunder, far off in the distance. Sighing deeply, he had pushed the handle and walked down the hallway in a daze.

As he had fled towards the stairs, his back began to bow and his hands found their way into his pockets. Head down, he had barely seen the door to the staircase. He didn't remember stumbling down the steps, shuffling across the pavement, and hailing the cab. He didn't remember staring up at her window and seeing the small, intense light flickering in the stormy air. He didn't remember which bill he had given the cabbie, and whether he had taken the stairs or the elevator to his loft.

He found himself at his desk, facing a future without the fulfillment of something real with her. He had believed in her, believed in all the tangible possibilities. But, it was over. He was done. He had acted foolishly, impudently, rashly. He truly believed that what he had done was the right thing to do. He could not have imagined a life without her in it, and he thought he had acted out of love. He thought he could save her, that he could protect her.

Instead, he had lost her. When she was so close to speaking to him without subtext, without hiding behind that curtain of brown hair, the quirk of her lips betraying her attempts at being the serious, stoic Homicide Detective Extraordinaire. The Wall was coming down. She had been in therapy. The revelation had floored him. Kate Beckett, able to face down the monsters of the earth, had actually been going to therapy.

No stranger to the ways of therapy himself, he wondered what they had talked about and if his name had come up. His ego squirmed at the thought of Beckett trying to open up about him, about their relationship, their partnership.

He looked down, saw the picture staring up at him, and fished it out to see it in the light.

Alexis could not have been more than seven years old, pigtails in full, summer-celebratory glory. She stood in front of the Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton at the American Museum of Natural History, her eyes aglow with wonder. He was kneeling down with her, his arm around her shoulders, his trademark grin lopsided on his face. He had asked the guard to take the picture for him, and the septuagenarian had had trouble understanding that he was supposed to push the button on the count of "three."

This picture always reminded him of the weekends he had spent roaming the museum with Alexis, who would beg him to stay just one more minute so she could crane her neck to see the top of the skeleton or the back of the diorama laid out before her.

His lips curled in a bittersweet smile. That Alexis was gone. In her place was a beautiful, smart, independent young woman who had bested her personal demons and successfully gained admittance to colleges that had politely thanked him for his application many years ago.

He missed his little girl, the one filled with the unbridled joy of discovery. At the time, she shared that trait with him, which is why it was never a chore for him to stay at the museum all day long, seeing every exhibit twice over.

He looked down at the links of a crudely-made bracelet in the bottom of the box. He gingerly lifted it out and placed it on the desk. The first tile on the bracelet had the year "2000" painted on it in a garish fluorescent color. The remaining smaller beads spelled out "Happy Fathers' Day," complete with the apostrophe in the wrong place.

He smiled wistfully. The writer in him had protested, but his heart melted when she had given it to him. His little overachiever had worked on it for two hours during the arts and crafts portion of her first grade class. Her teacher had called to tell him that she hadn't seen Alexis work harder on any project in her class, that Alexis had, in fact, thrown away the first design because it "wasn't good enough."

He then unearthed the Playbill sitting at the bottom of the box with Mother's face staring back up at him. She had graced the cover of the Playbill for the first time on Broadway, and he would never forget the lights, the sounds of the actors pounding the boards of the theatre, and the thunderous applause when his mother had taken her final bow.

He had clutched the Playbill in his hand the entire cab ride home that night and he had spent hours staring at the cover. His mother looked so different in the picture. He did not open it until early the next morning and when he had read her biography, he regarded it for what seemed like an eternity.

"Martha Rodgers has appeared in numerous plays off- and off-off Broadway, and she graces us with her presence in her Broadway debut. She credits her son, Richard, as the one accomplishment she is most proud of in the world and dedicates her performance to him."

He had cried himself to sleep that night with tears of joy.

Tears. They were all he had left now. Filling his eyes, but refusing to fall. He was alone. Truly alone.

Mother would likely still live with him, but, with her acting school going well and students beginning to fill the halls, she couldn't stay forever. She would eventually live there part-time, returning every so often to check in on her son.

And although Alexis would be a mere subway ride away at Columbia, he wanted her to live on campus, so she could fully enjoy the thrills of living with roommates in the middle of a bustling hub of academia. She would visit him, of course. But, she, like Mother, would be a part-time resident.

After everything they'd been through together, he truly thought he could have shared this space with _her_. Together, they would have made new memories and filled the walls with the sounds of a life of discovery, of trust in each other.

As he looked at the pictures one by one, he could almost see the suppressed smile, the lilt in her voice as she spoke.

_Castle, I had no idea you were so fashion-conscious even then. Are you wearing a Members Only jacket? With the collar popped?_

_A private jet? When you were all in your Halloween costumes? Wait, are you Gilligan? Don't tell me your mother is dressed as Ginger. Actually, that's oddly appropriate. Where were you off to, your own private island?_

_You would have liked my grandfather, Castle. He and I built a model aircraft carrier one summer. Took us an entire month. Is that a P-53 Mustang?_

_So this must be the infamous graduation photo. At least you had the decency to keep your robe on for your mother._

As he thought about her, hearing her voice brought a smile to his face. However, her playful tone was quickly replaced by her look of determination, the resolve of a soldier guarding The Wall. His smile fell. Never again would he hear that sarcasm prodding him to defend himself, never again would he see the small upturned corners of her mouth as she tried to keep her dazzling smile at bay.

Never again could he see himself as the man he once was. Richard Castle – the playboy, the Master of the Macabre. He had tried that recently, to no avail. He had believed what he had said to her a few weeks ago.

"I'm not asking you to do it for me. I'm asking you to do it so the real killer doesn't get away with murder."

"What makes you think I'm actually going to fall for that blatant manipulation?"

"Because it's true?"

He had bought into the creed of all homicide detectives: the victims come first. Gone were the days of charming excuses used to justify his juvenile behavior. He believed in what the detectives did for the families. He believed in Beckett, who always went deeper into the story, never satisfied with the easy resolution or the trite, clichéd explanations.

And now…it didn't matter. Just when he had grown up and accepted the fact that the victims in the cases came before his personal wants and wishes, just when he had changed for the better…she was gone.

He had done it for her. She had forced him into the harsh light of an interrogation room, and he had not liked what he had seen. He took her calls in the middle of the night, in the wee hours of the morning, and had always shown up, coffee in hand, grin on his face, and a twinkle in his eye. It wasn't about the books anymore; he wanted to help her, to help the victims.

Now, he was the victim – victim of a lie born out of a misplaced love and unwanted protection. He had been afraid. He had been desperate to shield her. He now had to face his new reality alone.

He had promised her _always_. Their unspoken promise of fidelity and undying support for each other now lay in ashes on the floor of her living room, set ablaze by her steely glare when she made her declaration of war against Them.

With her defiant declaration, he had folded. He couldn't follow her anymore. He had always seen himself as her partner, and he had thought he would have followed her through the Gates of Hell itself if need be. But, when she had needed someone the most, she refused to listen. She had refused to see him standing right in front of her, his heart in his eyes and fear in his voice, pleading with her to stop.

He couldn't bear another funeral. He couldn't bear to see Jim Beckett, to have to explain why he had failed his daughter again. He couldn't listen to the sound of the drums, beating their mournful tattoo as the pallbearers carried her to her final resting place. He couldn't listen to the muffled sobs of Ryan, Esposito, and Lanie as they said their final goodbyes. His only choice was to step away.

He stood up slowly, resting his hands flat on the desk to steady himself. He reverently placed the artifacts of his former life back into the box. It was time to move on, with or without her at his side.

He owed himself that much.

…

A/N: Well, that was uplifting, was it not? I will likely attempt a much lighter, dialogue-filled fic in the future to test out my hand at their voices. Seems the hiatus just lends itself to angst.


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